Caffe Trieste

You never know whom you might meet here. Really. From Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Jack Hirschman to silly little me or a celebrity look-a-like (Or are they not mere look-a-likes?), Papa Johnny still packs a talented house.

I made the mistake yesterday morning of staying at Vesuvio for coffee when Tony wasn't there. He must have been on hiatus. I swear every metaphorical grease-ball [c]hristing mother of hell was in there running his mouth. By no means, though, does that mean that everyone in there was a bastard. But by the time the three loud-mouthed specimens of masculine inadequacy who had been at the bar since I arrived finally left, I felt like I needed antiseptic.

Oddly, I ended up having to go out and buy antiseptic to bandage some poor foul-mouthed, scruffy-looking nerf-herder of a skater's hand for him. Yes, he lacked every last notion of a gentleman, but my internal mother hen is instifleable. Really? If he really believed that his inability to answer 8th grade level math and logic questions was the real reason I wouldn't take him home with me after I had to be the one to buy him a drink to stop his whining, he is even more sorely deluded on the necessity of men to conduct themselves like gentlemen in public than anyone I have ever previously encountered. Instead of bandages and anitbiotics I should have given him a copy of the latest Emily Post guide to etiquette.

Luckily, after that, I wandered in here, to the Caffe Trieste where I ran into Amy and Kedir and, even later, Sean. Sweet, gentle humanity is rare these days, and they were breathes of fresh air to me. I even had a chance to catch up with Amy after years of not seeing each other. What a wonderful way to save a morning.

I spent the afternoon visiting my friend KC at an open house for a beautiful home up near Union and Taylor. I worry sometimes whether or not my friendship with him is in his own best interests. I gave him a book to read the other day, and he finally just reached the part about the dancing girl.

From there, I sped off to the Condor. Yes, that Condor. On Sunday afternoons before the naked ladies come out to dance, they have an amazing band that calls themselves Los Diablos de Amor [sic] play near the open windows. Something about them makes me dance, dance, dance. They play from three to six every Sunday, and I do what I can to stop by every week. I must have mentioned them already...

Last night, I walked up Nob Hill to visit Mr. 'Hopper. I don't know what I would do if he weren't around to feed me tasty vittles every time I see him. He takes such good care of me. I know we're not meant to be, but he is so sweet to me for just working so hard to have food to feed me that I have insisted on guilting him into spending my birthday with me in Yosemite next month. I know he wishes I would leave him alone, so he wouldn't have to hike Half Dome with me... I don't mind doing the hike alone, but he has some need to protect me from something, I know not what. Maybe someday I will know how to properly thank him.

I wandered home at about 1AM and went to sleep.

This morning I woke too late to make it to Vesuvio to see if Tony were around. I came straight here to Caffe Trieste instead, and I have been in fine company ever since. Yey!

I'm not going to double-check this post. You're all going to have to just deal with any typos.